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I found this phrase, “girl falling into woman“, in one of my college journals.  At the time I was in between.  Not a girl-child and not ready to own the title woman. College was a comfortable place between identities.  Still a student, I hadn’t entered that thing people kept warning me about called “real life”.  I still ran to the mail looking for care packages from my granny and headed off to camp with our christian group.  But I was doing these things with a ring on my finger that told me once they gave me a piece of paper I was moving 12 hours away to be a wife and around the corner, a mother. I was a girl, wondering if the ring, my age, giving up the job of student, if one or all of these would make me a woman?  Or did the way I felt in my heart and in my skin still entitle me to be a girl?  I was in between.

A few years later I found out that a ring(which resides somewhere in a sewage system aftering getting flushed down the sink), a house, that even a husband and children didn’t stamp me like a cookie cutter into a woman.  I remember sitting with our first baby in the moments after she was born, amazed at the privilege the Lord had given to us. Then waking at home in shock when I realized I was still the same person with the same issues, skills(or lack thereof), doubts before the contractions started.   Which group did I belong to now-I was somewhere in the middle.

A decade of marriage and 3 more children and sometimes I still think I’m a paper doll trying on the outfits I think a woman should wear.  Can I layer the the funky skirt with the apron, a burpcloth, a haircut that might help me bleed past the edges that keep defining and limiting me?  Or should I alternate outfits for church, playdates, adult dates, trips to get coffee and write?

I’m still a girl falling into my own definition of a woman, although I don’t consider it such a dilemna anymore.  I’m a collage-girl, momma, daughter, mrs. darcy, artist, student, teacher, dreamer.

I’ll wear whatever I wanna wear.

The background noise fell mute, her smile and easy laugh turned up, she adjusted slightly in the chair.  Putting her head down for a minute, a deep inhale and exhale, and her eyes swung toward me, the audience, “Catching Walter Cuuningham in the schoolyard gave me some pleasure…”, I watched my daughter as she began a final run through of her monologue in the warm-up room.

For the past fifteen minutes I’d watched her do some jumping jacks to get her energy up and work through her piece a few times asking for my last minute feedback.  I remained keenly aware of my words, my stance, my nervous energy that I tried to subdue so that the only vibe she absorbed from me was relaxed confidence.

But I also watched with a little awe, mixed with surprise at the gift of the moment, and the flashing images of the fun we’d had together this week.  Like the tadpole turned frog who climbs onto the rock and finds himself finally home in the air and land, she’d moved easily into the world of theater.  I remember the feeling myself, but it was something else entirely to find it in my daughter. Memorizing, talking through character, trying and discarding ideas, all of the elements she’d absorbed readily like the frog breathing air.

Now, the moment upon her, some children might show nervousness, signs of panic as other potential actresses crossed our path.  Something-whether the huge studio, the single nine year old alone in front of the two professional directors-something  should rock her.  She told me later as she focused in the last few moments before she began that she alternated between conjuring her character and repeating to herself, “Okay, I’ve got to do it, i’ve got to do it.” And she did.  Without dropping a line.  Followed by a charming and animated chat with the director.  ”It didn’t seem like a big deal, it wasn’t really hard.”

It wasn’t really hard because she was inside of her gift, her dream, her passion. It wasn’t too nerve-wracking because she’s energized by performance time. She wasn’t a flight risk because she’s worked her tail off all week to be ready.

A thought had nagged me throughout the week, Am I just tying to fulfill my unfulfilled dream through her?  Again and again the answer came back “no” because anyone could see she loved what she was doing and she was almost eerily, naturally, effortlessly, good at it.  The first words from the director to me after the audition, “It’s obvious she loves performing.”

In the warm up room that afternoon I marveled at the gift of sharing this passion.  I atleast have the skills to help her construct her wings to take flight, I thought.

But as we left the audition, another voiced joined in, I want this for her, she’s worked so hard, and I really want this for her. And I had a glimpse of how easily I might go over the edge to a place where my want for her to succeed could smother her young, joyful approach to the experience.

Then she got called back.  Called back by a professional theater on her first ever audition.  The decision to let her audition had been a whim, a “life’s never going to get less hectic and when will there be another part at a professional theater when she’s just the right age.” The whim had turned into possibility.

The second week of preparation was harder.  As we worked on her scenes, I wondered if I was working her too hard, asking her to reach a level that she wasn’t ready for, was I taking the fun away?  I couldn’t find a clear line to draw that marked Ready For Audition from Perfect Performance for Mama.

Knowing ahead of her lay a three hour call back, reading in front of other girls up for the same part, reading scenes with a professional actor, she didn’t even glance back at me as she headed in and she came out again smiling, “I loved it, that wasn’t hard. I’m hungry.”

Now we wait until monday, when casting is revealed.  But my thoughts remain turbulent.  Will I be the parent who hires an agent, signs up for every audition and workshop available, pushes my child past the point of fun as I see plenty of parents do with their own passion whether it’s a sport, academics, or an art. How will we encourage the dreams of our other 3 children while we spur on this one, and what about parts of the theater life that aren’t so innocent?

For now the question remains: How will I help fuel the dream without quenching the fire?

Our girl scout troop really knows how to celebrate…here’s the pre-show

As I take another day to recover from the busy weeks of Christmas before I find words again…let me present:

Our house tonight.

It’s been a long week at our house. Sickness slowly passing from one child to the next, like watching milk inch across a tablecloth.  Add to that a wintry dull mix outside with no sun in sight to bring relief, and you’ve got itchy children and a very antsy mama.

I was holding out for Saturday.  A morning friend date to go shopping for some sparkling hot-mama clothes and a full on date with Mr. Darcy, Christmas party included, for Saturday night. Friday evening found the next morning’s plans canceled.  I saw in front of me another long day of being in the house, with the usual excursion to the grocery store. Saturday afternoon found a very cute and equally fussy baby who was breaking in a tooth. Cancel date in sparkly clothes, pencil in another 5 hours in, that’s right, the house.

This story ends well though.  Partly because Mr. Darcy is a patient man who could see I was feeling pinned down and he tried to build a little space around me. He gave me his understanding, and he brought me a Christmas tree. Secondly, because I have cool kids.  They adapted quickly to the change of plans for the evening and threw themselves into finding the perfect tree to bring home to mommy.  The lights, the candy canes, it brought back the old magic.  (It’s only honest to add that 3 strands of lights ended up dead and only the top of the tree is lit at the moment).  To fan the flame of magic that had begun, Mookie and I sat down at bedtime to read the first chapter of my favorite book.  She’s finally old enough to experience it with me, curled in our reading spot, something for just the two of us.

The other element that saved the night from crashing from bad to worse was a time to create.  Design, cut, arrange, paste, sit back and enjoy the creation while peeling the glue from my fingers.  It opens up my breathing, loosens my jaw, helps me to feel sane again.

Now if only I can figure out how to craft a sun of light and warmth and health for the rest of the winter months.

Note: The festive recycled cardboard wreath above was inspired by the idea found here and here.

My fingers are itching.  Restless.  Or maybe it’s my brain.

For the past two weeks I’ve been watching a television show on netflix.  Netflix, if you aren’t familiar, allows you to watch certain movies and shows on your computer with the click of a button.  Now if you know me even a little bit, you might know that I love to watch movies.  And I also love not to watch them, every night that is.  As far as tv goes, we haven’t had a tv show we’ve watched consistently in about 3 years and we only turn on the television to use the dvd player.  I feel like I’m wasting my time, my brain, my potential for reading a good book, if I sit and stare at a screen for too long.

With that bit of information, you’ll understand why it’s so completely odd that I’m watching episode after episode every night, sometimes until 2 in the morning.  Now let’s add in the further weird factor-the show is about football. Maybe you didn’t know about the movie/tv thing, but you probably did know that we are not a football family.  We’re the family that invite people over for a party and then find it’s Superbowl Sunday and we didn’t even know it was football season.  We’re the family that nod our heads mildly as my dad goes on and on about college vs. NFL, and who traded who, and the power of the Bulldogs.  We’re also the family that probably needs to acquire a football to toss with our 4 year old son so he atleast has the choice to be something other than an artist.

So when I’m not watching this show(that my husband watches with me) or trying to ignore the guilt of the accumulated screen hours, I do ask myself why. Why?

Back to the itching fingers.  Besides asking myself questions in the off hours, I also dream of projects.  While driving to p.e. or fixing mac and cheese, I compose blogs, dip my fingers in glue, fancy myself an artist.  But when the kids are tucked away, and an empty hour lies invitingly before me, I settle myself into the same spot on the couch and hit “next episode”.

I have actually come up with some answers.  Aside from being a well-made show, the characters are passionate.  About football, each other, what’s right and wrong, mostly about football.  And though I can’t relate to the football part, I’m drawn to the passion.  The first person to introduce me to passion was my 10th grade drama teacher.  With her mismatched socks and keds, her frumpy hair and long skirts, and her director’s attitude, she was passionate about theater and gave that gift to me at 14.  I studied theater, wrote stories, created things with my hands, because of the overwhelming desire to do so.  It’s in my blood now that I need to be passionate about whatever I’m doing. But with passion comes vulnerability, and with vulnerability, the possibility of failure.

Right now life is pretty busy.  From the time my eyes open until after 9pm, I’m serving the needs of the family.  In my stolen hours, I can choose between the safe, albeit artificial, passion of some football players, or the passion of something authentic in me that wants to work it’s way out.  With the chance to fall hard, also comes the chance to rise high.

They are the sun on a cloudy autum day,

the reason I can’t move from this town, unless it’s for a longer fall season,

a soothing melody of colors,

what ocean was to me for the first half of my life,

my comfortable,

goodbye for this year, it’s been a good one

* 3rd photo and final photo courtesy of mookie, age 8

Ideas for writing occur throughout my day.  No one told me that multi-tasking as a mother included the ability to sift through blog ideas while serving breakfast, wiping up spit-up, reading a book out loud, and listening to Schoolhouse Rocks.  Of course, composing sentences in my head does not make a posted blog with meditative thoughts and witty anecdotes.  Sadly, each day, several potential blogs fall to the wayside, only the strongest survive by 10pm and even the most persistent might not win out against a cozy couch and a netflix.  Here’s a few from the weekend:

1 When I Became My Mother or 10 Things I Hate About Shopping

2 The Battle Has Begun: Fighting For My Daughter’s Body Image

3 The Five Best Places To Kiss a Baby

4 Weird, Unsocialized, Homeschoolers: Here We Go Again

5 What I Wish Someone Had Told Me When I Was Almost 9

6 Laughing At the Days to Come: The Lord Teaches Me Through the Mouth of a Babe

7 Useful Skills Children Were Taught Back in the Day but Now They Play the Wii (or how I wished I’d learned to sew)

8 Forget the Kids, Let Me Tell You What I’ve Learned Since We Began Homeschooling: Finding a Wider World

9 Doing Something Creative Every Day and Yes, That Might Include Finger Painting

10 8 years Into Parenting and I Still Know Next to Nothing

Which one should I have written?

I thought if I ever visited Narnia, I would be on the lookout for Aslan, having tea with Mr Tumnus, and taking sewing lessons from Mrs. Beaver.  But when I finally got there, I had to turn my back on Aslan and follow the White Witch.  What else is a mom to do when her daughter is an ogre in the witch’s army?  Become a fan!

This week Mookie went to drama camp.  This girl has been directing plays and making props since she was two(okay maybe younger), but I have to say it was exciting to see that after spending time doing improv games and acting out scenes, she still loves it.  At the end of the week, she had her first ever stage performance in The Lion, the Witch, and Wardrobe.

So we got a little excited for her.  And donned some appropriate clothing for the big night.

We made these shirts the night before the show, at around 11pm .  Mr. Darcy was sick with a cold and sounded like Darth Vader, and still he not only came up with a slogan about ogre underpants, but actually put it on his shirt to wear out in public. It was hands down the family favorite.  Now that’s a father’s true love.

The next day some friends came over to help micah transform into her ogre-ness. She’s never had anyone take the time to work out a hairstyle, paint her nails, and do her make-up.  What a day.

Even mom and sister got a tattoo.

A defeated night for the witch’s army, a victory for Mookie-she’ll always remember her first play.

Norman Rockwell, Edgar Degas, Grandma Moses.  These are a few of the artists we’ve met this year since adding Picture Study to our learning time.  Picture Study is a Charlotte Mason inspired idea.  

At our house, picture study looks like this.  

• I pick an artist and find a nice large book containing his/her paintings from the library.
• Each week, for six weeks, we look at one piece of art from the book.  I keep it displayed prominently in our family room, so that as we pass by it seeps into our memory.  
• Sometime during the week, I take the book down and we look at the painting together.  We spend five minutes trying to remember as many things as we can about the painting and then I close the book.  Everyone takes turn sharing what they remember.  We open the book and see how we did and add elements we might have forgotten.  
• Like the click of camera, now we have added the painting to the gallery in our mind.
• If I find interesting books or videos about the artist, we add those as well.
• Every 6 weeks, we start a new artist.

This takes us up about 10 to 15 minutes in our whole week, and already we have begun building a gallery of great works.

This week, I felt inspired by another element of picture study added by this family.

I confess, I was nervous about M and J’s reactions.  ”I can’t draw that, ” seemed the least of the worries.  Falling to the floor and giving up completely because they couldn’t BE the artist was more of my concern.

So last night I showed the girls samples from the blog above and we talked about how we weren’t trying for perfect and all of our sketches would look different.

Today we tried it and it went great!  I know that having this positive experience is going to make the next time that much more fun and enthusiastic.  Here are the girl’s work side by side with our artist’s painting of the week, A Midsummer Night’s Dream by Marc Chagall.